


Felicity

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caranthir comes to Finrod when he needs to feel okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felicity

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thingy for this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s half surprised he’s let into Nargothrond with all the trouble his kin have caused, though Celegorm and Curufin deny it all. Caranthir’s known them long enough to see the lies behind their smiles, know they’re not as good as they seem, Celegorm not as pure and Curufin not as wise as they think. Caranthir’s the _dark_ one, with a temper and a brooding face, but he means this place less harm than his brothers. But maybe their grip is tighter than he thinks, because the guards that greet him let him straight inside.

In these trying times, it always irks him to have his horse led away, his supplies not in his hands, though he barks at the fool who tries to take his sword and is ultimately permitted to keep it. They say they only mean to unburden him, but he snarls that if the sons of Fëanor are not permitted to keep their things amongst their own kind then Finrod Felagund has larger problems than a single sword in a cousin’s hand. Celegorm and Curufin would laugh to hear Caranthir call these people _his own kind_ , but they aren’t the one he seeks. He doesn’t even tell them he’s come, not yet. He orders secrecy and seems to be given it, though he can’t shake the escort that takes him to the king’s chambers.

He’s arrived late, not by design, but the waylaying of his party by more of Morgoth’s orcs. If he were any other prince, Finrod would probably ready himself and rush to a proper audience chamber, but Caranthir is pleased and not entirely surprised when that doesn’t happen. He’s taken to personal rooms instead, where he knocks to announce himself before the guard that follows him can.

There’s silence on the other side—for a moment, Caranthir wonders if he’s caught his cousin asleep and no servant’s run ahead. But then the heavy handle clicks and the door creaks inward, a single candle illuminating the fair face of the most beautiful elf Caranthir’s ever seen. He thought it then, back when they first met as children, Caranthir scowling to hide his blush and Finrod beaming like a Maia, and he thinks it now, after he’s seen all the different straggled bits of their once-proud race. Even in this harder world, Finrod’s beauty is unblemished—no scars, no withered lines, nothing but peace on his soft features. His eyes widen slightly around the edges as he takes Caranthir in, the candle flickering with his sharp intake of breath. He murmurs by way of greeting, “Moryo.”

“Findaráto,” Caranthir returns, voice carefully neutral. In all the time it took to come here, he hasn’t yet decided how to play it. Where another might find his coldness suspect, Finrod takes it as easily as ever, and steps aside, drawing the door wider open. He gestures into his chambers with his free hand.

Caranthir steps inside without a word to the guard that followed him and closes the door swiftly behind himself. He’s sure that must cause worry—family and supposed friend or not, Moryo is often considered the worst, the most violent, of Fëanor’s turbulent line, and now he carries a sword at his hip before this realm’s king, unarmed and in nothing but night-robes. But Finrod’s power has never been solely in weapons. He stands before Caranthir in tantalizingly thin fabric that falls too far along his shoulders, showing an indecent amount of his bare chest. His golden hair tumbles smoothly down his back, a single ribbon woven into the middle. He stands barefoot, tall but lithe, and holds the candle up to eye Caranthir properly. 

Then he turns to stroll back into his chambers, Caranthir following. He almost winces at how heavy, how _menacing_ his footsteps sound after Finrod’s feather-light glide. They divert past all other furniture, and Finrod comes to his tussled bed, where he perches on the edge. He sets the candle on the nightstand, still giving so little light, but Caranthir doesn’t need it—he doesn’t care what’s in the rest of the room. He knows what Finrod looks like in better light, what Finrod looks like in _all_ light, has him memorized to every last little detail. A part of Caranthir just wanted to see if that beauty was still the same—if there was at least one good thing that Morgoth hasn’t managed to mar.

Finrod’s still beautiful. Some of the youthfulness is gone from his face, a hint of maturity, responsibility now rigid across his shoulders, but he’s fared better than most Caranthir’s seen. Once, Caranthir’s study would’ve been subtle, hidden and denied every time Finrod looked at him, but now Caranthir isn’t sure when he’ll get this chance again, and he stares unabashedly. There’s an armchair against the wall that faces the bed, but Caranthir makes no move to take it. He stands where he is, made taller in contrast.

Finrod says nothing of this, perhaps knowing how stubborn Caranthir is, and instead watches Caranthir back with a calm sort of interest. He sweeps some of his hair over his shoulder, absently braiding it in long, delicate fingers as he asks, “You are a long way from your lands, my friend.”

 _My friend_. Finrod uses that term for entirely too many people. It used to make Caranthir’s blood boil back in Valinor. Now he doggedly ignores it, perhaps even enjoys the reminder that he’s back _with Finrod_ , and makes a grunt of agreement.

Undeterred, Finrod notes, “You did not warn me that you were coming.”

Even though it’s not spoken like an accusation, Caranthir bristles. “You would have told my brothers,” he explains, and though Finrod lifts one blond brow, Caranthir doesn’t elaborate.

Perceptive as ever, Finrod says, “And you came to see me alone.”

Caranthir doesn’t answer, because it’s obvious. Finrod waits, and still Caranthir has nothing. He loses himself, instead, in the sweep of Finrod’s soft hair and the silver flecks in his blue eyes. There was a time when Caranthir didn’t have to seek Finrod out and ask for this, because Finrod would find _him_. When he would sit in corners and mope, peer aimlessly out windows and brood, distance himself and just generally foster the sort of attitude that would exasperate anyone else, Finrod would come up to him and sit at his side, smile so sweetly at him, and tell him _things would be okay_.

Caranthir would gripe that he _hated_ Finrod for that. It would be easy to hate someone so good, so revoltingly _perfect._ But nothing he ever said would ruin Finrod’s shell of pleasantness, and there was a certain admirable strength in that.

Perhaps he could’ve, he often thought, if he’d done what he really wanted. He used to lie awake at night and think of crushing his pretty cousin to the floor and unleashing the only _real_ desire for anything Caranthir’s ever had, and sometimes he still does. He would tell himself he couldn’t dare, not just for the sin of it, for that kind Finrod would never want him, but because he didn’t want to be the one to ruin such a fragile magnificence.

Now, as he sees the king Finrod’s become, knowing of all the great battles Finrod’s fought through, he can’t help but wonder if he was wrong. 

A thin smile tugs at the edge of Finrod’s pink lips, and he irritatingly surmises, “Did you want me to rekindle your hope again?”

Wrinkling his nose at having half his mind read by a creature that couldn’t be more different than him, Caranthir mutters, “That would imply I had any in the first place.”

Finrod laughs. His voice is like music, just as pure as Caranthir remembers. He tilts his head cutely to tease, “What a pessimist you are, Moryo. But I suppose it would be foolish to expect you to have grown out of that.”

“And you’re ever the optimist, despite our mounting losses and Morgoth’s continued reign,” Caranthir scowls right back, only to wish he hadn’t when Finrod’s mouth drops into a frown. It’s a gruesome reality check—once, nothing Caranthir could’ve said would do that. He’d hoped Morgoth’s reach couldn’t extend here.

Finrod’s quiet for a moment, and ultimately muses, “I admit, I am surprised, after all that has happened, that a son of Fëanor would still put any stock in the words of Finarfin’s son.”

Caranthir wants to snarl and demand _why he can’t care about his own cousin_ , but he knows his stigma is well earned. He’d be wholly surprised if Celegorm and Curufin were truly well behaved here. But Maedhros was always allowed his closeness to Fingolfin’s eldest, and even if Caranthir’s never been any good at _closeness_ at all, he always thought with Finrod it would be... _easier_.

If his own hands weren’t so rough. If he were capable of the kind of goodness Finrod deserves. If their new world weren’t falling apart around them. 

Finrod finishes his braid and deftly strokes the end, having run out of distractions to fill Caranthir’s silence. He murmurs, whisper-quiet, “Do you want me to convince you there is still good in this world?”

His words are open, but his eyes are knowing. Caranthir experiences the cowardly, shameful want to retreat. He could still speak of politics, not sentiment, claim some other reason for being here. Instead, he nods.

Finrod looks away. He seems to be gathering himself, the way Caranthir had to do to come here, and then he rises from the bed to stand as tall as Caranthir, _gentle_ but no less strong, infinitely more lovely. Even without his crown, with no adornments, the jewelry and splendor of royalty all retired for the night, he’s _art_. His hands reach forward, fingers brushing lightly over Caranthir’s knuckles, and he steps closer, so near that his toes touch Caranthir’s boots. He turns his face to place a chaste kiss on Caranthir’s cheek, enough to make Caranthir’s eyes flutter and his skin burn. A shiver runs down his spine: _how long he’s wanted this._ Finrod holds his face against Caranthir’s, Caranthir’s chin lowering and eyes tightly closed. He can _feel_ Finrod in his arms. He wants to lunge forward and wrap Finrod up tight, hold him crushingly close, scald bruising kisses into his pale flesh. Caranthir used to suffer guilty fantasies of marring Finrod with an array of finger marks and teeth-shaped grooves, maybe a bruise or two from claiming him too hard against too solid a surface. Now Caranthir’s glad he never had the chance, that Finrod’s still unspoiled, even after all the carnage they’ve both waded through. A part of him wants to believe that Finrod will never fall.

But he’s a realist and knows this blazing star won’t be around forever. He came here because someday he may not have another chance. He still holds back, stands taut, while Finrod’s hands fall from his wrists to his hips and slide along his sides. Finrod wraps tight around him and whispers in his ear, “There is still good to be found, Moryo.”

Caranthir’s nearly trembling with the effort of restraining himself from _crushing_ Finrod in.

Finrod detangles himself then, nuzzles his nose into the side of Caranthir’s face, and breathes into his skin, “Perhaps it is time I reminded myself of that. I thought we would have forever, once. And I waited too long.”

Caranthir doesn’t understand. Finrod withdraws so that they’re face-to-face, noses nearly touching, but a thin layer of air between them nonetheless. Finrod looks straight into Caranthir’s eyes and says, voice steel-strong, “You will not break me if you touch me, Caranthir. I am not the innocent youth I once was.” With a pause, perhaps over the shock that must show on Caranthir’s face, Finrod adds, “Though I was never as fragile as you seemed to think me.” He smiles with mirth, like he hasn’t just given vague permission. 

Caranthir fights with himself over the meaning, just exactly what kind of invitation Finrod’s offered, then struggles to say, “I do not—”

“Oh, for Valar’s sake, Moryo,” Finrod cuts him off with a fond sigh. “Do not tell me you came all this way, and in secret, not to try and take what you always wanted. Your looks have never been as subtle as you seemed to think, and I am not a fool. You have wanted me, said as much with your eyes and your presence. Well, here I am. And I am weary, quite tired of fighting without someone to fight _for_ , and thoroughly ready for my handsome, albeit grumpy cousin to ask more than friendship from me.”

Caranthir has nothing to say. He catches himself swiping his tongue over his lips, gaze lowering to Finrod’s mouth, so _tempting_. Shock holds him for a moment, and then he can’t hold himself back anymore. He tilts slowly forward, as though any sudden movements will send Finrod skittering away.

Finrod closes the distance. His lips brush over Caranthir’s, just a light, lingering press. Caranthir sucks in a breath through his nose.

Then he _smashes_ them together, one hand jumping to fist in Finrod’s hair to hold him forward, the other clawing at his waist to grind him impossibly close. Caranthir dives in, and the force knocks Finrod right back—he topples onto the bed, Caranthir already crawling and hiking him up to balance them across the mattress. He digs Finrod down to the springs’ protest, tongue darting out to pry open Finrod’s lips. Finrod acquiesces with such ease and almost seems to sing around him, takes his ferocity, absorbs the fire and cools it into something palatable. Once he’s got a small taste, Caranthir can’t stop, and he shoves his tongue about, licking at the walls of Finrod’s mouth and tracing the line of his teeth, laving over his tongue and pulling fractionally back to bite his bottom lip. Caranthir’s hand rests on Finrod’s hip, wanting to tear their robes away, and Finrod’s arms encircle Caranthir’s back, legs spread around him. The kiss is wild, intense, and just as delicious, as satisfying, as Caranthir always dreamed it would be. It’s made better by all the extra senses—the smell of Finrod, freshly washed and vaguely floral from soaps—the sounds he makes, little gasps that try to escape around Caranthir’s mouth—how very _soft_ Finrod’s skin is and how warm it is to Caranthir’s greedy touches. Caranthir only breaks the kiss when he needs to _see_ this fantasy of his coming true.

He lifts up only high enough for their noses not to touch, though it’s close. His fingers slip from Finrod’s hair to cup Finrod’s cheek. Finrod’s blue eyes are dilated, hazy. He’s flushed a light pink, breath slightly harder than usual. 

He licks his lips, swollen from Caranthir’s fervor, and murmurs, “I have had a trying time of late, between all that I rule and all those that would take it. I could use a connection to take those troubles away.”

Frowning, Caranthir grumbles, “That is what _you_ are supposed to do for _me_.”

Finrod laughs. Caranthir can feel Finrod’s chest rising with it beneath him. “And you cannot return the favour?”

He’s no good at that. He’s always had a tendency to compound troubles rather than soothe them, but for Finrod, he’d try. He grunts, “We should indeed make the most of it, before Morgoth destroys us all.”

Finrod quips too easily, “We will always have Mandos’ Halls.” 

Caranthir roles his eyes and grumbles, “My infuriatingly resilient optimist.”

Finrod smiles and gets the chance to say no more, because Caranthir steals his breath away with another kiss, no less ardent than before. It also helps to hide his own grin, his own uncharacteristic burst of _happiness_.

He knew Finrod would give him hope again.


End file.
